When an Angel Leaves
by AyYouFiction
Summary: The story of Annie Cresta and her guardian angels.
1. 1

_I've been working on this short story off and on as a distraction to clear writer's block while writing other stories. I think it's ready for prime time, so I'm posting. Don't know if anyone will be interested in it, the theme's probably been done to death, but it popped into my head and I've been tinkering with it for months._

_This is my first attempt at 1st person and present tense and a story in this fandom. A lot of firsts and I would guess it shows painfully so in this story, but I hope, in the end, it's not total crap._

_Don't own any of it_

* * *

We stand facing Mayor Wrighthall, our mayor of District 4, and listen to the speech he gives about those souls lost at sea, how they gave their lives for the good of Panem. He speaks of how honorable their deaths were and how they will be remembered. We all know the truth, though. They won't be remembered except by the loved ones they've left behind. For my parents, they only have me to remember them.

After the mayor finishes his speech and the crowd wanders away, Finnick, our victor from the Games last year, clings to one of the other victors everyone calls Mags. Holding him tightly with one arm, she uses her free hand to pat his back gently, speaking soothing words in his ear while swaying from side to side. The pain in her eyes is as clear as day and says to me that somehow she understands his loss.

I wonder who he'd lost. His grief distracts me from my own if only for a moment, and I'm thankful for that.

The other children around me leave with the parent they have left, but some are like me, waiting for an official to collect us and take us to the community home because we don't have parents anymore. Unlike those with some family left, we won't be sent home with one month's wages; it'll go to the home for our care.

I have no say in the matter. At twelve years old, they won't let me live on my own, and I have no family left to take me in. So I'm left to become like the children I've seen who live there. They're well fed, but there's a kind of desperation in their eyes like no one else from my district. Usually, that look is seen in the eyes of those from the outer districts.

I know I shouldn't, and I try not to, but I can't stop the tears that start to trickle down my cheek. No matter how hard I try to fight it, I can't, and to my shame my nose starts to run, forcing me to sniffle. I look at all of the people left around me, and have never felt so alone in my life. Just when my tears start to stream down my cheeks I feel a hand slip into mine, and I look up to see a boy standing beside me. He doesn't have any parents with him either, and he looks just as lost as I feel.

He crosses his eyes to complete a silly face he makes at me, and it makes him look so out of place that I can't help but giggle.

"There's safety in numbers. An alliance?" he whispers to me. It's a philosophy that makes sense, the whole reason why our tributes try to team up with those from Districts 1 and 2 in the Hunger Games. "You and me?" he asks to coax me to agree with him.

I look down at our entwined hands and then back at the boy with his auburn hair and green eyes. I don't feel so alone anymore. "You and me," I say as my grip tightens in his hand. I don't know him, but I feel some comfort in having him near me. It's not much, but it's all I have to cling to.


	2. 2

"Welcome again, Finnick!" Caesar Flickerman says to the last victor our district's had for three years. Before taking his seat across from the show host, Finnick walked across the stage with a swagger and a flourished sweep of his arms out towards the audience and cameras.

It's the 68th Victory Tour and everyone who's anyone is in Panem, including all surviving victors.

My district's gathered in the square to watch the interview because this is a matter of pride, district pride. We don't win as many Games as District 1 or 2, and our losses for the last three years only highlight this, but we're no District 12 either. The fact that after three years Finnick is still the jewel of Panem gives us more pride in that.

I watch the seventeen year old boy flash his winning smile at the well preserved host, and I can't help but swoon. I'm not alone. Many of the girls around my age are giddy at the sight of him. No one will remember the scrawny boy fishing on the shores of our district like every other boy we know. Those days of being overlooked and just like everyone else have been over for him for years. He's the treasure of Panem, and therefore a treasure in our district all the more.

"Annie!" Ryan calls to me, trying desperately to navigate the crowd of bodies gathered in the square. Saddled with clean-up duty, Ryan couldn't leave the home early with me, and so he has to fight his way through the crowd to make his way to me. It takes him a while, but he finally stands beside me as all eyes are on Finnick Odair during his interview.

It takes me a while to realize that all eyes aren't on our victor. Ryan watches me watching Finnick on the screen, noticing how the victor's once gangly limbs have plumped with muscle, and how he's sporting a smile so seductive and yet innocent that it can steal any heart. Ryan mumbles something I don't quite catch. It doesn't occur to me to ask him what he'd said because my attention pulls toward the screen again to listen to Finnick answer the question, "So, Finnick, why don't you tell us something of what your ideal woman would be."

Finnick tilts his head to the side and purses his lips as though he's thinking hard about the question, but then says with his signature smile, "A kindred spirit." Our victor winks at the camera just before it pans back to Caesar Flickerman, and my heart flutters. I also hear squeals from some of the girls around me.

In response, Caesar rounds his lips and looks as though Finnick had just revealed a secret of some sort.

The interview ends after Caesar says his goodbyes to the audience and the screen fades to black when I finally turn my full attention to my friend standing beside me. He looks sour-faced and I'm not sure why. "What's wrong with you?" I ask him, but he only rolls his eyes in response. I'm still buzzed by Finnick's smiles and wink.

"Finnick Odair is so handsome!" I say. I didn't think it was possible, but the sour look on Ryan's face grows even sourer.

"Finnick Odair is a pompous ass," he tells me and spits to the ground to punctuate his dislike.

"He has every right to be. He's a victor," I defend the boy I've never met. "You're just jealous," I tell him as I fold my arms, and I notice his back stiffen and his eyes widen. "You wish you were a victor," I add for good measure, but that seems to relax him some, but only some.

Ryan stares at me for a long time, and I have to admit that it's making me uncomfortable. I wish I knew what was on his mind, and to answer my silent question, he leans in towards me and presses his lips to mine. It lasts for only a second, but the tingle remains and suddenly I can't remember what I was thinking about before it.

He fidgets while I try to grasp what that kiss means, shyly lifting his head to glance in my direction.

I know what the kiss means: that he wants me to see him that way. The question I have to ask myself is do I?

It takes a while for me to figure out what to say or do next, but when I do, the only way I can think to answer is to slip my hand in his and smile at him. Words he'd said to me years ago come to mind. "You and me?"

He smiles back at me and nods, and I know I've made the right decision.


	3. 3

After hearing the history of our county and the names of our past victors, our district's escort, Sattie Bowler, leaves her chair and shimmies across the stage in her brightly colored Capitol clothes that are too layered for the warm, humid climate of my district. Somehow, though, the woman doesn't break a sweat, and I wonder if it's the make up that helps with that.

Among the seventeen year olds penned together, I'm clustered with the other possible volunteers in the front. If the name of a possible volunteer of any age isn't reaped, one of the eighteen years olds will volunteer. They've decided amongst themselves long before the reaping which eighteen year old will have the opportunity, and under no circumstance is anyone to steal their glory.

Since Finnick Odair, our district hasn't had a victor, and I often fantasize to be the one to break that embarrassing streak. I see my district rallying around me with love and adoration; it's the reason why I signed up for the volunteer pool. After years of being invisible in the community home, years of having nothing, I hope to one day be reaped either by my name called or as an eighteen year old.

It's not that I do this only for myself. Even as I think of him, my eyes wander in his direction over at the eighteen year olds corralled across the aisle created by the cordoned off groups of children.

Ryan is standing there among those in the front, their possible volunteers, with his auburn hair even redder in the sunlight, and his sea green eyes seemingly glowing against his heavily tanned skin. They are trained on me, and my heart thumps wildly.

When I dream of being a victor and moving into Victors' Village, I dream of him there with me.

Back on the stage, Sattie Bowler squeaks out, "Happy Hunger Games," into the microphone in her irritatingly high voice and Capitol accent. I'm not sure if her voice his naturally that high, but I can't image why anyone would purposely try for such an annoying pitch. Either way, I have no idea why my stomach churns with anticipation. I won't be called this year; the older volunteers have taken countless more teserae than I have.

Sattie says a little joke to entertain her audience, but all I can hear is the buzzing in my ears until she says, "Now, let's choose our girl, shall we?" before shimmying from the microphone to the table holding the two bowls of names. She dips her glowing pink, perfectly manicured fingers into one of them, swirling them around a bit to stretch out the suspense.

Everyone around me is breathing heavily with their faintest hope for their chance of being reaped, but I know my chances are slim at best. Or so I thought.

"Anne Cresta."

There was a moment when the sound of my own name couldn't penetrate the buzzing in my head that's grown louder again but when it sinks in, when it finally sinks in that I've been reaped, I look at the faces around me and smile. I almost cry, but I can't let myself do that. I'm from the volunteer pool, so I don't have to fear that someone will volunteer and take my place.

I take those first shaky steps out of the cluster of my peers and to the two peacekeepers waiting for me. They escort me down the aisle and allow me to ascend the stairs alone.

Sattie grabs my shoulders and air kisses my cheeks with a quick congratulations before shimmying away and back to the table with the bowls. One of our district's surviving victors, Mags, hugs me tightly as though she's afraid for me, and I try not to take it personally. Not everyone comes back from the Games, but I will.

Finnick Odair, the other surviving victor of our district doesn't come to shake my hand or anything. It's not something he does with any of our tributes since he's been a mentor. Instead, he remains slung down in his chair with his arm casually across the top of the back rest and looks as though nothing of what's going on around him interests him. For good measure, he yawns to let us know just how bored he is.

I turn to face my district and wait for Sattie to call out the male tribute, but when I hear the name, "Ryan Harrow," my heart that was beating so wildly only moments before stops immediately. It can't be. I refuse to believe his name was called and wonder if I hallucinated it until he starts to walk away from the boys his age and to the stage.

The old saying mocks me: "May the odds be ever in your favor." I want to cry, and I allow myself do it because it's not fair.

Ryan makes his way up the stairs and is greeted by Sattie and her air kisses, then takes his place beside me just before Mags pulls him into the same hug as she gave me. This time I don't begrudge her her concern because I feel it too, now.

As our district cheers for us, their two tributes, I let the tears fall freely and force a smile to my face in hopes that Panem will mistake my crying for tears of joy. All the same, I know that one of us has to die for the other to live. I won't live in Victors' Village without Ryan; I can't. I turn to face him and see his hard facade that could easily be mistaken for arrogant confidence, but I know it's not. I know.

I turn for one last glance at our district's two surviving victors that are now our mentors and see the expression on Mags's face. For years, I'd always thought that it was concern that the fresh haul of tributes would shame our district, but I'm not so sure anymore.

It's Finnick Odair that catches my eye most. He's looking at me curiously, studying me like a toddler watching a school of fish for the first time. As emotionally drained as I feel, I have no stomach to stand up to his stare. I face forward again, but let me head dip down to stare at my toes and let the tears fall on them.


	4. 4

_As with all Hunger Games, there's some explicit violence. I'm not sure if it's too explicit for FFNET, but I guess they'll let me know the hard way if it is. Viewer discretion is advised._

* * *

The Hunger Games are about to begin. This arena is wooded with saplings all around us growing taller the farther out I look.

We, the twenty-four tributes, are standing on our small, round platforms watching and waiting for the countdown to end. I look in back of me and see two cliffs divided by one great wall and at the foot of the wall begins a calm river that winds its way into a pond near the cornucopia.

To my left, I see two tributes from District 3 and 7. Immediately to my right is the girl tribute from District 12, and she's nothing but skin and bones and shaking like a leaf. There's even a faint smell of urine from her direction. I can't blame her; District 12 hasn't won the Games in twenty years and didn't for many years before that.

Farther down I can see Ryan, his sights are set on the cornucopia. If only there was a way for me to get his attention, to tell him not to try for the supplies, but he doesn't look in my direction at all.

The countdown ends and the buzzer sounds to let us know its safe to leave our platforms. Ryan has already taken off for the cornucopia, and I hop to the ground to chase him.

I see in my periphery children fighting each other everywhere; it's a bloodbath. There is a body of a girl I have to jump over to keep pace behind Ryan, and I barely register who it is. It's the girl from District 12.

Ryan slips into the cornucopia behind a pair of boys locked in a knife fight and by the time I reach them, one of them is laying on the ground dead with the other's eyes fixed on me. I have nothing to defend myself so all I can do is back away from the glint of sharp metal pointed in my direction. The boy, the District 2 boy, grins at me as though he knows a secret: that I'm already dead and I just don't know it, yet.

He never sees Ryan behind him with the sword in his hand, so it was a shock when it skewered him and I watch as the point exits his chest. It disappeared, and the boy drops down to the ground lifeless. Until this moment, I hadn't had a free moment to really see the dead with their lifeless eyes staring at me, beyond me. But I see this boy staring at nothing with his mouth still wide open in pain or shock, I'm not really sure which in those last moments.

My legs turn to jelly and I collapse to the ground because I have the time to look around me and see all of the dead. It's gruesome with gashes opening up flesh all the way to the bone and the fear frozen on their faces. I don't hear Ryan calling for me to stand until he drops his sword to pull me up by my shoulders with both hands.

I hear him yelling at me, but he sounds so far away and muffled, and his face is hazy as though it were something of a dream. I can't understand the one word he's yelling at me over and over again.

The word finally sinks into my brain: "run." My vision is coming into focus and sounds are becoming a little sharper and my eyes level with his. He slips his hand in mine and it comforts me as it did the first day I met him but I see a flash of silver and then something sprays across my face, blinding me.

I wipe my eyes and open them to see nothing but red, and in front of me Ryan's looking down at the ground. There's nothing there, but he spends precious seconds staring. It's only then that I see someone standing in back of him, a knife held in her hand that's dripping with blood, and I look at him again.

I take his hand in mine and pull it towards me to get him to move, but it only makes his head flop to the side and that's when I see it in the daylight: the deep gash in the side of his neck. His head flops down again, but the movement is enough to unsteady his body until he tips over and onto me.

I scream and flail against what's left of the boy I knew, barely aware of the girl from District 2 taking steps in my direction.

From the side, there's someone screaming and it distracts her, causing her to decide what's more important. Eventually she runs off, and I'm left alone with Ryan's body on top of me. There's an ache in my jaw and my throat feels as though I've swallowed a mouthful of sand. I'm still screaming, I realize, and I have no desire to stop.

Somehow, over the piercing sound of my voice, I hear another voice screaming even louder. It's telling me to run and it gets louder and louder until I can't hear anything but the command it gives me. The sound is so loud, now, that it's starting to hurt so I slide myself from underneath Ryan and crawl away. When I'm a few paces away, I pull myself up and stumble onward. Eventually I walk and then run.

It's still talking to me, telling me to keep running, but it's not as painful anymore. Now, it's more soothing and comforting and makes me feel as though if I keep running I might be safe.

The saplings are easy to run through, but the taller trees are thicker and growing close together, so much so that I have trouble weaving between them. The farther I run, the taller and wider the trees are.

The voice inside my head tells me to stop, and I do. There are several thick bushes clustered together, and they are covered with thorns, but the voice reminds me that this is nothing new for me.

When the administrator of our community home was angry with me and Ryan for whatever reason, we used to hide in the wild rose bushes growing in the back of the building. They were always covered with thorns that hurt, but we grew used to them.

And so I squeeze through the thicket, ignoring the shallow and deep scratches, until I'm nestled in the center of them. There's nothing but the sound of my heavy breaths that eventually lull me to sleep.

The sun starts to set when I wake, but I don't feel awake fully and I'm not sleeping. It feels as though I'm in that place in between when I hear that voice in my head speak again. "You'll be safe, now," it says, but it's not coming from my head anymore. It's coming from beside me, a shadow, but too weary to be frightened.

"You and me?," the shadow says and with the voice I suddenly remember when I was twelve years old, without parents, and feeling so alone. I recognize that voice now that some of the fog of sleep has left me.

"Ryan?"

"I'm here."

I want to cry; I want to scream. I'm not sure I can do either because my mind has come to a screeching halt. It's too busy trying to reconcile the sight I'd seen at the cornucopia with the shadow sitting beside me. I cover my ears with my hands and rock back and forth until I'm too tired to do that anymore

* * *

_Starting this story, I saw Annie's experience to mirror Katniss's but in a funhouse mirror sort of way. That's where I sort of took this story._


End file.
